When Fire Refuses to Die
by Marvin Garbeh Davis, Sr.
At night, the ash should sleep.
But here, embers hide like thieves in the dark,
breathing beneath the surface,
a red memory refusing to fade.
I know this fire—
it lingers in the ribs,
in the hollow where hunger curls,
in the eyes of men who swing machetes
just to feel sparks fly.
We poured water,
we shoveled sand,
we stamped our feet until our heels split open,
but the fire laughed,
coughed smoke into our faces,
and said: I will return in your children’s breath.
Some flames burn wood.
Others burn silence.
This one burns the truth:
even when you bury it,
the fire will dig its way back to light.
The Shoulders I Borrowed
by Marvin Garbeh Davis, Sr.
I learned manhood
on shoulders that bent before they broke.
My father’s hands were maps
of callus and cut,
lines carved deeper than any textbook.
He carried the weight of silence,
the weight of debts unpaid,
the weight of children with wide eyes
and empty bowls.
When he grew tired,
I borrowed those shoulders,
wore them like an inherited coat—
too large, too heavy,
but warming me all the same.
Even now,
I feel their ache inside my own,
as if muscle remembers
what the heart cannot forget:
that being a man
is sometimes nothing more
than carrying until you collapse,
then rising again
for the sake of those watching.
About the Author
Marvin Garbeh Davis, Sr. is a Liberian writer and poet whose work explores memory, resilience, and the quiet survival of ordinary people. His poetry and prose reflect spiritual depth, social truth, and emotional honesty. He lives in Monrovia, Liberia.
